I come from a place where I walk down paths across which mud sprawls, rain splashes and droplets are splattered on my shin by the frayed ends of my jeans. Where the rushing winter smells of sweet dew and summers laze for half the year. Where Autumn doesn’t come.
I come from a place where salty, bustling crowds push through prolonged narrow lanes, where festival lights blind the darkness and noise is a constant ebb and flow. A place, where longing is felt in a canoe under a remote bridge, overlooking the river.
I come from a place where mornings begin with a chirping ‘adda’, where on Mondays, traffic sighs into yawning roads and blue/white lights blur flyovers. A place where gleaming faces sell red roses on old, forgotten roads.
I come from a sequestered metro, a city known for its joy; a place, in this rapid, hustling world where one can still stop for a breather. A place where one can find a home, a place that I can still call my home.
I come from a place where the acrid smell of the river still comforts, where newspaper boats race on flooded streets. A place which I once longed to leave, a place which I now yearn to return to.